


Monsoon Weather

by lifeinwords



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-06-14
Updated: 2011-06-14
Packaged: 2017-10-20 09:55:36
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,726
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/211507
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lifeinwords/pseuds/lifeinwords
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Harry used to think about what having a girlfriend would be like. Then the rain came. (Written Post-GoF)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Monsoon Weather

Harry used to think about what having a girlfriend would be like.

During the last few months of sixth year it kept him company in the between times; between classes, games of Quiddich, and even during meals, fuzzy images kept floating by. On their first date he would take her on a walk around the lake, and it would be cold, even for November, so he’d give her his cloak and pretend he didn’t need it. Ron would poke him if he stared too long at her across the Great Hall, and he’d blush, leaning on his hand to hide the mark she’d left.

He’d dare to pass notes in McGonagall’s class, and get responses full of curly letters and hearts over the i’s. His shirts would start to smell like her, and he’d hold off on washing them for days. She would be shy, like him, and it would take him four dates to get up the courage to hold her hand, which would be small and soft and cling to his.

It would be better than Cho, because it would be real, and it would feel like Quiddich: his heart would hurt as it pushed against lungs that always felt empty, his hands would turn icy and he’d lick panic-sweat from his upper lip before leaning down to taste her for the first time. Everyone would know they were together and be happy for them, even if Hermione would roll her eyes when they wouldn’t stop snogging in the common room no matter who was watching.

Harry would feel strong with her, and as brave as everyone thought he was.

Everything changed during the rains, which continued until Harry thought he’d forgotten what the sun looked like. At first it was cozy spatters decorating Harry’s face during Care of Magical Creatures, but within a day the sky blackened and lashed down in thuds that made his skin ache. The blurry landscape outside Hogwarts’ windows never changed as November days passed, and his classmates’ faces took on a grim grey tinge. Harry struggled with taking notes in Potions, his parchment wilted and porous as cloth. He stared down at his now-illegible list of ingredients and scowled, glad that class was over and that Hermione had spelled her own work against bleeding ink.

“Having trouble, Potter? Perhaps it’s your quill.”

Harry looked up as Malfoy passed his desk, his face disinterested rather than malicious. About to respond with something about snakes who couldn’t mind their own business, he was too late to stop Malfoy from snatching his quill and walking off, tossing it idly from hand to hand. Harry would have gone after him, Accio’d it back or even tackled the boy, but he just couldn’t be bothered. The quill was ruined anyway, split at the tip from pushing too hard.

It was just too…wet. Too much rain to care about much of anything.

The grounds couldn’t absorb any more water, so it flowed into puddles in the centers of the pathway stones, filling in depressions from thousands of student feet. At first the water was clear and shallow, but after a week it turned muddy with uprooted grass and filled in even the highest points of land, shining slick in the lights from Gryffindor Tower.

Harry was slogging through the two inches of standing water from the Quiddich pitch to dinner, too tired even to close the fastenings of his cloak and keep out some of the rain. His hair hung in his eyes, almost covering his glasses, and Harry gave up pushing it back when doing so sent shivers of wetness behind his ears and under his collar. The Slytherins had practice next, and were filing into the changing rooms muttering about freak weather and useless wizard Headmasters. Tucking his numb fingers in his armpits and his head into his chest, Harry didn’t see Malfoy until he stepped on his toes, and almost fell backwards when he tried to move out of the way.

His stupid feet slipped on the still-mossy cobblestones, and Harry closed his eyes, bracing himself for getting even wetter, but a tight hand on his arm stopped him halfway to the ground. Looking up, he saw the pale, dripping lines of Malfoy’s face set in a sneer, though a halfhearted one. Perhaps Malfoy was also feeling worn-down by the constant beating of the rain, which pounded on the roof so hard in the mornings even classes on the ground floor could hear it. Harry wasn’t about to say thanks. Knowing Malfoy, any mention of an act of kindness or decency--even an instinctive one--would only lead to another argument. And Harry was tired. So he tucked his hands and head in again and started to walk around Malfoy. Who was still standing in the middle of the walk with the helping hand frozen in front of him. Then it moved, and Harry watched in shock as it moved past his head.

Cold fingers cupped the back of his neck, pulling him in closer to Malfoy’s face. It was fuzzy in the lamplight reflecting on Harry’s wet glasses, but Harry thought he saw that face soften for a moment. But he couldn’t be sure, because then he felt Malfoy’s mouth on his.

It was nothing like he thought it would be. Those icy fingers were the only tender touch Harry had ever felt from Malfoy, who bit and sucked at his lips until Harry, stunned, opened them. Warm. Malfoy’s mouth was warm. Harry curled himself around it like the hot water-bottle in his bed at night, sucking on the tongue that stabbed into the corners behind Harry’s teeth.

Harry's stomach tightened, his shoulders clenched, and he grabbed the soaked folds of Malfoy's robes. He wondered if kissing was supposed to be so--hard. So rough and urgent, like something was slowly unknotting in him. There was a trace of blood from somewhere; Harry could taste it growing stronger in the mix of ice cream and pumpkin juice. Malfoy had obviously already eaten, damn him. And just like that, it was over. Harry stared blankly at the cut on Malfoy’s bottom lip and eyes that had no color in the darkness. Malfoy somehow hushed his panting enough to whisper, coming in close to Harry’s ear, “Know this doesn’t change anything, Potter. It just is.”

Now Harry thinks only sometimes about his imaginary girlfriend, how they’d laugh together over the latest story on him in the Daily Prophet. He’d tell her about Rita Skeeter, and how it really felt to face Voldemort, and she’d trace her finger lightly over his scar. They would nestle into each other and lie silently for a long while, and her kisses would be comforting, hesitant, and taste like tears.

Kissing Malfoy is never hesitant, and Harry never gets time to breathe. It’s immediate and almost never planned; they’ll walk by each other in the halls and not look in the other’s direction so hard that Harry knows to meet him after Charms, in the fourth-floor closet that started smelling like mold two weeks ago. Harry brushes his teeth and wonders where this urgency comes from, if he’s always been holding it in. If Malfoy is the only one who can let it out.

Now they exchange bites instead of insults. Fingers snag on clothes that never quite come all the way off as they stagger in the dark and moan into the walls. Sometimes Malfoy pushes his face into Harry’s neck when he comes, as though he’s afraid of what Harry will see, or hear.

Harry sneaks looks over at the Slytherin table during lunch, and catches Malfoy smirking into his soup. Dumbledore decided chicken soup at every meal will prevent students catching colds, but Harry stopped eating his days ago. Instead he traces his fingers over the marks Malfoy leaves behind, using the table as cover, and nods absently at whatever Ron is saying.

Malfoy has never touched him tenderly since. Harry reached for his hand once after they’d stumbled out of an abandoned classroom, half-unbuttoned and gasping, but Malfoy just bent his first finger back almost to his wrist and glared, asking only, “Are you mad, Potter?” Harry thinks maybe he is, because he can smell Malfoy even when he isn’t here, and he feels awake like he never has, and it can never, ever stop.

Everything about this is wrong, Harry tried to tell Malfoy once. But Malfoy doesn’t want to talk, doesn’t want to make plans for the Hogsmeade weekend or complain about the latest homework. Instead he grabs Harry’s cock, which responds like it knows who really owns it, and Malfoy grins with recognition as he goes down. Harry never imagined Malfoy would want to suck Harry’s cock or want it inside him, but Malfoy doesn’t seem to care what they’re doing as long as they’re doing it. Standing in the cobwebs behind a crumbling statue or locked in a stall in the boys’ bathroom, Malfoy doesn’t seem to care about anything but Harry’s skin, the way his feet twitch, the purple his nipples turn when pulled too hard.

“Come for me, Potter,” Malfoy grunts into his neck. And Harry does, every time.

Harry feels dazed, and he guesses it shows, because everyone looks at him lately like they’re worried. Ron and Hermione think it’s because of the rains, or the pressure of Voldemort; both are weights he can’t put down. But it isn’t really, not just that, anymore. Harry feels half-asleep most of the time, lulled by the drone of footsteps and whispers of evil on the rise, his sleep full of darkness no one but him can see.

He doesn’t know what it means that Malfoy makes him forget, or that Malfoy maybe makes it real, but every time it’s like letting go. Not that Malfoy just takes it, just lies there and lets Harry decorate his neck with a chain of blue-grey bruises. No, Malfoy gives right back, like he wants to take it all out on someone too, the fear and the anger and the too-thick air so damp he has to force it into his lungs.

 

Harry yawned as he made his way down the hall to breakfast. Somehow he kept waking up more tired than when he’d gone to sleep, exhausted by dream-battles which always took place in the rain. At least Malfoy kept popping up in between fields streaked with blood, pulling him into empty rooms and hissing at him to be quiet. Someone would hear. Harry liked those dreams. They were always clearer than reality, and Harry had hours to make Malfoy scream.

He paused before turning a corner, hearing Crabbe ask, “So, who’s the new girlfriend?” He brushed past a portrait that glared at him when he shushed her and ducked into an alcove. What new girlfriend?

“What new girlfriend?” Malfoy sounded bored, but Harry thought he heard a note of tension underneath.

“You know, the one who makes your back look like a tic-tac-toe game.” That was Goyle, and Harry thought he’d never heard him say such a long sentence before. Not that he was wrong.

“Why, are you jealous? And what makes you think she’s a girlfriend?” Just like Malfoy to answer a question with two. Harry climbed up onto the window seat. This would probably take a while.

“Did you think we wouldn’t notice? You come in late, you disappear after class.” Goyle wouldn’t give up. Harry had to admire him for that.

“Maybe I’ve been…” Malfoy paused for what a long time. It probably meant something, but Harry didn’t know what. “Busy.”

“But you look different. Somewhere else all the time.” Crabbe was chiming in. Harry rubbed his empty stomach and wondered if he should just go back down the hall and get breakfast later. But the seat was warm now, and Harry didn’t want to move.

“I didn’t know you two were so worried about my mental health.” No answer. Malfoy sighed.

“C’mon, Draco, who is she?” Harry squinted out the window in the alcove, trying to see past his reflection. His breath kept fogging up the glass, and he wanted to see if the rain was slowing. It had been three weeks. It had to end sometime.

“It doesn’t matter.” Harry looked outside at the trees, the youngest ones nearly bent double under the constant pressure.

“But—“

“Soon, Goyle, none of this will matter. Remember that. There are bigger things than Hogwarts to think about, let alone whom I shag as entertainment. God knows there’s nothing else to do, what with the bloody rain.”

The wind had been getting worse lately, and Harry could barely hear three sets of footsteps walking away over the low roar. He’d heard Filch grumbling about his storage shed, the ancient one filled with oily tools. It had just collapsed yesterday. With the roof being torn off piece by piece, the walls had shuddered themselves down, and now Harry could see bits of wood covering the lawn outside. They said it’d only get worse tonight. He wondered if there would be lightning. He shoved himself down from the window seat and peeked around the corner. Empty. Good. Harry hoped there were scones left.

 

Harry knows he doesn’t know anything about Malfoy, really. Harry knows that Malfoy has perfect ankles and loves it when Harry sucks on the tendon above his heel, but he doesn’t know what his handwriting looks like or if he loves Quiddich like Harry does. Harry knows this can’t be trusted; it’s not like they’re ever going to take each other home, or exchange Christmas presents.

It is what it is.

But still, that night Harry sends a note. He’s never sent a note before, and he doesn’t know if Malfoy will come; but he’s sick of the constant drumming on the bedroom roof, clipped and dark like Malfoy’s words. He’s sick of breathing dust and listening for voices. Harry doesn’t care about the thunder that’s getting louder, or that it’ll be cold. He wants Malfoy outside, with nothing to hold on to.

Harry didn’t think it was possible to be this cold. He kept trying to clench his fingers and toes to keep the blood moving, but couldn’t tell if his body was obeying his brain anymore. Huddled under the almost-awning of the Quiddich changing rooms, Harry cursed his own impulses. Malfoy would probably pick now to stop showing up, leaving Harry aching and soaking and waiting all night. He shifted to the left to avoid a steady drip and squelched ankle-deep. Thunder exploded in his ears and Harry jumped.

In the flash of lightning that followed he saw Malfoy standing frozen on the curving path like he’d forgotten how to walk. Finally. Harry jerked his head to the right and raised his eyebrows.

“Potter. What the fuck are you playing at? Sending me notes with what everyone knows is your ruddy owl, expecting me to come out and play? If you think I’m going to fuck you in this wea—“

Harry ran forward and tackled Malfoy, closing his mouth with his tongue. Malfoy tried to push Harry off, but Harry got one hand in his hair and one on his chest and wrestled Malfoy to the ground.

Harry felt them rolling over and over, finally landing in the water collected in the hollow of the pitch. Cold hands jerked at his buttons. Hot and shuddering breaths caught in Malfoy’s mouth. Knees pressing up and in. Blind and frantic, Harry found Malfoy’s skin, already smeared with slick mud. Malfoy’s hair itched at his face, the dripping points drawing slow patterns over Harry’s eyes. He opened them on the next crash of thunder and flipped Malfoy over.

Flashes of lightning the only illumination, showing everything and then nothing. Harry felt clumps of grass getting loose and clinging like Malfoy’s muscles around his waist. Caught, robes sticking to his legs and tangling. Malfoy grinned below him, he could feel it. Sucked the thrumming pulse under his chin and bit down, feeling his own lips stretch wide and hungry.

Their skin shines in the wetness, and they move together more easily. Rain beats Malfoy into Harry’s skin with tiny darts. Slipping down backs and pooling in the throat, warm as it mixes with their growing sweat. Harry feels a new tension in Malfoy’s arms knotted around him. Brutal as always, nails scoring too-sensitive wrists and the soft spot at the base of Harry’s ribs. But he’s hotter tonight, writhing like he can work Harry’s skin open. Like there’s something inside for him.

Harry hears branches snap, a gust pushing his face into Malfoy’s sticky chest. Sliding sideways and down, feet wrapping around calves. Finding hands by touch, licking fingers and twisting them down and in and in. Palms pull his thighs open and up, a burning scrape of teeth on his knee a warning and then. The heat a jolt through his body that always feels new.

Screams open and choked by rain. Wind and blackness. The soggy thwap of leaves flung against the stands, boards creaking in time to their thrusts. The ground offered no purchase, leaving feet buried in dark earth going liquid with the heat from their bodies. Wool slapped the puddles around them, hands fisted in hair. Thighs clenched, stomachs stroking in and down over and over. Harry gasped at the sizzle of the next flash, ozone searing his lungs. Now.

“I slept fine,” Malfoy says at breakfast a few days later, and Harry realizes he’s forgetting what Malfoy’s voice sounds like except in passion. Then it’s hoarse and strained, whispering around broken consonants.

Malfoy’s speaking less lately, fading into the background as though he’s waiting for a spotlight to go on. But everyone seems faded now, eyes and voices dulling in the half-light. Only Malfoy still looks bright to Harry, caught in a moment of groaning, back arching him up into Harry’s chest, eyes opened to lightning and a pleasure so thick it has pain at the bottom.

Everyone is waiting for something to happen, some word from the outside. Classes are nearly silent except for quills scratching and the wind rattling the glass in the windows. Harry thinks his time is running out; it has to stop or it has to get better. He’s not sure if he means the rain or Voldemort.

Last time he came back to the dorms with jammed fingers and a split lip--people are noticing. Ron and Hermione had cornered him on his way out of the common room tonight, the last night of November. Hard to believe it’s the thirtieth night of rain. Harry scrubs a hand over his face as he climbs the stairs to the Astronomy Tower.

Yes, he’d said, he was with someone.

No, he didn’t want to talk about it.

No, he couldn’t say whom.

He remembers their faces, Ron staring blankly like he couldn’t fathom Harry refusing to tell them anything ever. Hermione had just closed her eyes and sighed, warning him tiredly that he had to tell them eventually.

Maybe they wouldn’t push; maybe they’d believe that he wanted to tell them. That he’d ask her tonight, and she’d say yes, and Ron would punch him on the arm and Hermione would roll her eyes. But Harry knew better.

Malfoy had sent the note this time, the first since the night lightning had split one of the oldest oaks on the grounds and Harry had seen Malfoy’s face naked. His eyes had been closed, eyebrows touching and expression wanting so fiercely that Harry might have been scared. Might have been, if Harry hadn’t known he could be ruthless as well.

Harry turns the damp knob on the door at the top of the stairs, skin tingling already because he can feel it, a buzz in the air like when Trelawney had made her prediction. Malfoy’s standing in the middle of the room, cool and vaguely sullen like always, but his eyes stop somewhere above Harry’s. He feels Malfoy’s gaze on his scar, firm like a nail. It drags down the zig-zag that looks like lightning for some reason Harry’s never learned. Malfoy’s always looked past it before, and Harry twitches under eyes that don’t move on. Instead they grow darker, pupils sucking at the color until it’s just a line separating black and white.

Harry shrugs, and tells himself he’s being superstitious. He walks slowly to the center of the room and unfastens his robes, snapping Malfoy’s gaze free. His skin is getting tighter, lungs squeezing in until Harry feels light-headed. Malfoy doesn’t move, so Harry leans in and bites Malfoy’s chin as a greeting, tugging his head forward so he can reach Malfoy’s tie.

The knot comes free easily, and Harry thinks he’ll use it tonight. Maybe go slowly for a change, since they’ve got a room and a couch and even a lamp.

He tugs Malfoy’s buttons open, and the robe slips down frail shoulders and catches at the wrists. The cufflinks are harder, somehow, and Harry gets tired of slow and gentle. So he grabs Malfoy below the elbows and shoves him back into the wall and growls just a little.

Malfoy flinches.

Harry freezes.

He thinks maybe Malfoy hit his head, or maybe the stones are cold and clammy, but he doesn’t really. Not anymore. He looks down for a moment and then rips the robe sleeves open, hearing a ping as one stud strikes the wall. Now the robe falls, and Harry turns to Malfoy’s shirt, which has wilted over the day and gives under determined fingers. One, two, three, and Harry doesn’t have to look down now, he can watch his blank face reflected in Malfoy’s eyes.

The skin below Malfoy’s elbow is red and swollen, the color bright against the black skull and snake. Red and black and pale white skin. It was almost beautiful. Harry lifts Malfoy’s left arm to see it better, and traces its edges with the soft brush of a finger. The burnt outline feels dead, colder than the skin around it. Malfoy breathes in suddenly, like he’s about to speak. But Harry lifts his hand and places it over Malfoy’s mouth, because he can hear his own voice in the silence now.

“Listen,” Harry whispers. “The rain’s stopped.”


End file.
